


immolation

by youcouldmakealife



Series: but always in tandem [26]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 03:03:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8951320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: “Come with me,” Robbie says.Georgie shuts his eyes, and for a second he looks exactly like he did his rookie year, sad and worn out and breathtakingly beautiful.Robbie hates him so much.





	

Robbie barely has a chance to return the kiss before Georgie pulls away. Wrenches himself away, actually, staring at him with this regretful look on his face, and Robbie didn’t think he could hate him more, but he was wrong.

“I’m going to call you an Uber,” Georgie says, even, like they’re continuing a conversation and Georgie didn’t just fucking _kiss_ him.

“No,” Robbie bites out. “We’re not done.”

“We can — you’re drunk, and I’m not sober either, we can talk about this another day,” Georgie says.

“You fucking _kissed_ me,” Robbie says.

“I’m sorry,” Georgie says. “I’m fucking — I’m going to — do you have your phone? I can go get it if you don’t.”

“No,” Robbie says. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to start shit and then pussy out of finishing it.”

“Robbie, fuck,” Georgie says.

“Come home with me,” Robbie says.

“No,” Georgie says. “I’m going to go get Dougie, he’ll—”

“Come home with me,” Robbie repeats.

“You’d hate me for it,” Georgie says, but he sounds a little unsure now.

“I already hate you,” Robbie says.

Georgie flinches, pulls back. Robbie doesn’t realize how close they're still standing until Georgie moves away

Robbie grabs his sleeve. “I already hate you,” he repeats.

“I heard you,” Georgie says, tight.

“I can’t hate you more,” Robbie says. “So fucking come.”

*

It’s just a whim. A kind of stupid whim, honestly, since Robbie’s struggling with his workload, but he doesn’t have anything due until next week, certainly nothing he can’t finish while Georgie’s doing Stud Fucking NHLer shit, and as long as he gets back before the game against Northeastern, he’s pretty much good to go. The Barons are on a homestand, their longest of the season, and Robbie misses Georgie so much it’s a constant ache low in him. It’s pretty much a no-brainer to book the flight. 

He hasn’t touched the Christmas money he got from his nonna, and it wasn’t purposeful, exactly, but in hindsight he may have subconsciously held onto it or something. It’s so, so easy to put a the airfare on the credit card that’s technically for emergencies — whatever, he has the money to pay it back immediately — and suddenly he’s got to get on a plane tomorrow morning. The internet makes whims _way_ too easy to fulfill. God bless it.

Robbie calls his mother as soon as he gets his confirmation. “Can you drive me to the airport tomorrow morning?” he asks. “Also I’m going to Cleveland for a few days.”

“Are you,” his mamma says, sounding like she’s smiling. “Valentine’s Day present?”

“Bit late for that,” Robbie says. The actual Valentine’s gift was Georgie convincing his roommate to fuck off for a couple hours while they were in Tampa, and they just kind of…chilled, not saying much in particular, just whatever occurred to them at the moment. It was the closest to normal it’s felt since just after Christmas. Valentine’s was pretty good. This’ll be better, since Robbie can actually _touch_ Georgie this time.

“Still,” she says. “Georgie got you a ticket?”

“Got one myself,” Robbie says. “It’s kind of a surprise or whatever, so don’t, like, immediately call Sharon and tell her and ruin everything.”

“Yes, topolino,” his mamma says. She sounds kind of like she’s mocking him, but he can’t call her on it if he wants that ride.

“Airport?” Robbie asks. “Please?”

“What time do you want me to pick you up?” she asks.

“Six?” Robbie asks.

“Roberto,” she sighs.

“Please?” Robbie repeats.

“Why don’t I just pick you up tonight and drive you tomorrow morning?” she asks.

“Oh,” Robbie says. “You’re smart. I must have gotten it from you, huh?”

“Be ready in an hour,” she says. 

“Gotcha, love you, gotta go, I haven’t packed at all, this was very last minute, see you soon,” Robbie says, all in a rush, and she’s laughing when he hangs up on her.

*

Georgie orders him an Uber, doesn’t say a word to him while they wait for it. He went back in to get Robbie’s jacket, and Robbie was reluctant to hand Georgie his coat back for reasons he doesn’t want to examine.

“Get home safe,” Georgie says when it arrives.

Robbie wraps a hand around his wrist. His coat scratches under Robbie’s palm, but the skin below the cuff of his shirt is hot and soft and vulnerable.

“Come with me,” Robbie says.

Georgie shuts his eyes, and for a second he looks exactly like he did his rookie year, sad and worn out and breathtakingly beautiful.

Robbie hates him so much.

“Stop,” Georgie says.

“What, you have someone?” Robbie asks.

“No,” Georgie says, overlapping with Robbie’s, “Not that it’d make a difference either way.”

Georgie laughs after Robbie says it, this quiet, choked thing that sounds the opposite of mirthful.

“Come with me,” Robbie repeats.

“You can’t just repeat the same thing until I give in,” Georgie says. “It doesn’t work like that.”

Robbie thinks that it works exactly like that. That as hung up as he is, Georgie’s right there with him. He can see that loud and clear now, written right across Georgie’s face. They’re hanging together. What a miserable fucking pair.

“No?” Robbie asks. “You don’t want to come home with me?”

“Fuck,” Georgie says, and gets in the car.

*

Apparently the surprise gods or whatever are with Robbie this morning, because everything goes smoothly despite the fact it was snowy as fuck in Boston. There’s a woman struggling with too many bags outside of Georgie’s building, and Robbie takes two for her, which gets him through the door without needing to buzz Georgie. Karma. 

He runs into another woman when he’s almost at Georgie’s door. She’s got the classic walk of shame look — makeup still on but messed up, short dress despite the fact it’s ten in the morning and thirty degrees out, that distinctive edge of ‘got laid’ coloring everything. 

Everything in Robbie suddenly sinks to the ground. He doesn’t even have to ask. 

He does anyway.

“Georgie Dineen, huh?” Robbie asks.

She laughs a little self-consciously. “Um, yeah,” she says.

“Nice work,” Robbie says. He has no idea how his voice is so light right now.

“You a Baron too?” she asks.

“Old friend,” Robbie says. “Guess he’s going to be in a good mood.”

She laughs again. “Yeah,” she says. “Um. Nice to meet you—”

“Robbie,” Robbie says. “You his girlfriend or something?”

“I just met him last night,” she says, then goes red, like she knows how slutty that sounds.

“Right,” Robbie bites out. “Then I guess your name doesn’t matter, huh?”

“Wh—” she starts.

“He’s taken,” Robbie says. “For the record.”

“I didn’t—” she says, still red.

“Yeah,” Robbie says. “I’m sure you didn’t.”

*

Georgie doesn’t say anything in the Uber, and Robbie thinks of and rejects a dozen things, mostly because they’re not the sort of shit he can say in front of a stranger, especially one who may recognize them. The driver didn’t seem to, but a good poker face doesn’t mean shit. It’s not a long ride anyway, and when Robbie trips out of the Uber he half expects Georgie to tell the driver just to keep going, but instead he pays, gets out behind Robbie.

“Still hot for it, huh?” Robbie asks.

“You got your keys?” Georgie asks, ignoring the question, then follows Robbie up the steep stairs, close enough that if Robbie slipped on the salt-pocked concrete he’d take them both out.

Robbie keeps one white-knuckled hand on the cold iron of the rail instead, jams his key in the door, turning it hard because it often sticks when it gets below freezing.

Georgie follows him in. “You have a nice—”

“I don’t give a fuck what you think about my decorating choices,” Robbie bites out. “Are you going to fuck me or what?”

“Robbie,” Georgie says. Robbie’s so fucking sick of the way Georgie says his name, the way he still reacts to Georgie saying his name.

“Either fuck me or get the fuck out,” Robbie says, and walks into his room without looking back.

Georgie comes into his room a minute later, holding a bottle of Gatorade in one hand, a bottle of Aspirin in the other. Raided Robbie’s shit like he had the right. Robbie’s stripped to his pants, and he flicks his eyes over to Georgie, then drops them, belt buckle clattering against the floor.

“I’m not fucking you,” Georgie says.

“Then I think I told you to get the fuck out,” Robbie says.

Georgie blows out a breath. “Fruit punch,” he says, instead of answering. 

Robbie’s uncontested favorite, though he alternates the flavor he drinks, gets the variety pack at Costco so he doesn’t get sick of it. He’s learned his lesson, has binged on the shit he likes until it gets worn thin, ugly with constant use, from that cupcake place he’s started to hate to TV shows he watched in the space of a day blurring together until he can’t remember a single thing about them. Georgie’s favorite is orange, and he drinks it every time, has since he was eighteen — probably before that, too, before Robbie had ever met him. Fucking ironic in hindsight.

Robbie suddenly remembers being sick, sophomore year, that endless week of fruit punch Gatorade and Georgie bringing him food he didn’t want to eat, wasn’t hungry for, Georgie convincing him to get it down because the last thing he needed was for his weight to drop after all the work he’d done putting it on over the summer. A week of Kleenex abrading his sore nose, pills during the day, Nyquil at night, cough drops tucked in the corner of his mouth all the time. Robbie kept telling Georgie to fuck off, because the last thing the Terriers needed was to lose both of them for Saturday’s game, but other than for classes — his _and_ Robbie’s, since he went to Robbie’s, took careful notes — and when he needed to sleep, Georgie hung around. Robbie would wake up coughing and Georgie would be dropping his textbook, already grabbing him some water. Robbie would fall asleep to the sound of Georgie’s staccato typing. They weren’t even together then, that was just Georgie being Georgie.

“Fuck me or get out,” Robbie snaps.

“Fine,” Georgie says, and for a second Robbie thinks he’s given in, but in the end he puts the Gatorade and Aspirin on Robbie’s bedside table, squeezes his shoulder, and walks out of his room.

Robbie doesn’t know why, but suddenly he feels like he’s going to cry.

*

Robbie’s hands are shaking when he knocks, and the wood scrapes against his knuckles like they’re frayed nerves. He’d turn around, walk out, but he doesn’t have anywhere to go, and anyway, it’s more than Georgie deserves.

Georgie opens the door in his underwear, and even with the stone in his stomach, there’s something in Robbie that’s so, so relieved that he’s there, close enough to touch. “Did you forget—”

“Hi,” Robbie bites out.

Georgie’s face lights up for a moment before he takes in Robbie’s posture, and then it drops.

“Going to let me in, or what?” Robbie says.

“Yeah, of course,” Georgie says, steps back. “You didn’t tell me—”

“If I had you’d have hidden the whore, huh?” Robbie asks.

“Robbie,” Georgie says.

“If you’re planning on lying right now, you should probably know I talked to her,” Robbie says. “So don’t waste your fucking energy.”

Georgie puts his hands up almost like he’s defending himself from a blow, then further, heels of his hands digging into his eyes. When he drops them his eyes are pink and bloodshot, and Robbie can’t remember if he looked like that when he opened the door. “Can you just let me—” Georgie starts.

“Explain?” Robbie asks, and the laugh that comes out of his mouth is so ugly he doesn’t even recognize it as his own. “Can I let you explain?”

Georgie doesn’t say anything, just stands there, hands at his sides, looking utterly helpless, and a small part of Robbie feels desperately sorry for him. The rest of him hates him with a fervor he didn’t even know was in him, wants to jab at him in every weak point, wants to rip him up and leave him in pieces.

“Guessing this isn’t the first time,” Robbie says. The look on Georgie’s face is answer enough. The look on Georgie’s face is a blow all on its own.

Every part of Robbie needs to leave before he does something he’ll regret, because it’s fucking terrifying, hating someone as much as he hates Georgie right now.

“Robbie,” Georgie says again, and suddenly Robbie hates the sound of his own name.

*

Robbie wakes up with a dry mouth and a pounding head. There’s an unopened bottle of Gatorade beside his bed, a bottle of Aspirin, and for a second he thinks Drunk Robbie was unusually conscientious, but after he swallows the pills, washes them down, he remembers how they got there.

Robbie gets up, waits for his stomach to settle before he leaves the room, because the last thing he needs is to puke the pills up a second after he’s taken them. He walks to the front door, going to lock it, but it’s already locked, and there’s a pair of shoes that aren’t Robbie’s set neatly on the shoe mat. 

Robbie’s stomach twists, and he goes to find Georgie. It doesn’t take long, since he’s on the couch in the living room, covered in a thin throw, too short for him, barely covering him shoulder to mid-calf. Georgie’s dead to the world, mouth soft and pink and slack, lashes dark against his cheeks, suit in a puddle on the floor. He breathes in, soft, and it feels like a sleepover or something, feels like Georgie in the opposite hotel bed, feels like Georgie a few inches away, breath hot against Robbie’s skin, their bodies curved together like punctuation.

“Get up,” Robbie snaps, and Georgie startles, is halfway to sitting before he looks over, meets Robbie’s eye.

“Robbie,” he says, face so soft Robbie can’t stand it.

“Who said you could stay?” Robbie says.

“I was — I didn’t want to leave you alone,” Georgie says.

“That’s not a fucking answer,” Robbie says.

“It’s my answer,” Georgie says, gets that stubborn tilt to his jaw. “I wasn’t going to leave you alone.”

“Such a gentleman,” Robbie says sarcastically, and considers it a personal victory when Georgie flinches. The look on his face is so wide-open vulnerable that Robbie doesn’t think it’d take all that much to tear him open. It’d barely take anything at all. 

It’d be so fucking easy.

*

“I thought I fucking meant—” Robbie says before he can stop himself, can’t finish because his voice has gone tight, choked, and the next word out is going to be the dam breaking, he knows it. He feels hot all over — Georgie’s brought that out of him a lot, but it’s never felt like it does right now. Before it’s been a flush, maybe a stab. Right now it feels like immolation.

“You do,” Georgie says, his own voice close and tight like the edge of tears, and Robbie can’t look at him. “Robbie, it’s been so fucking hard lately, okay, I’m not making excuses, I just—”

“Yeah, I’m going to fucking go,” Robbie says, and that was it, that was the dam, and that’s him breaking. He tries to take a breath in, but it hitches. He can’t breathe.

“Please don’t,” Georgie says, “Can we just talk about—”

“I don’t ever want to talk to you again,” Robbie spits out, is out the door and slamming it behind him before Georgie can reply. He makes it as far as two doors down before he slides down the wall, starting to sob before he hits the floor. 

*

“You’re not over me, huh?” Robbie asks, because he thinks he knows the answer, and if the answer isn’t what he thinks it is, well — he thinks he’s scarred over the part that gives a fuck anymore.

“It’s not something I can turn off,” Georgie says, which Robbie gets. Robbie’s had a fuckton more motivation to try, and it still doesn’t work.

“Poor Georgie,” Robbie says mockingly. 

“You asked me a question,” Georgie says. “I answered. I’m not asking for sympathy.”

“Good,” Robbie says. “You’re not getting any.”

Georgie rubs a hand over his face, and it’s — maybe it’s wires crossing, Georgie looking soft, like lazy mornings and the nights they were both too exhausted to do anything but go to sleep, creases in his cheek from the shitty throw pillow he’d slept on, eyes still sleepy, dark, his skin that white winter pale that made him look like a marble statue, cut in the same perfect lines, but always hot and living to the touch. Always perfect looking except some tiny flaw that made Robbie love him more when he noticed it, a nick from shaving, the freckle below his jaw, bruises and scrapes and the breakouts he’d get when he was stressed.

“What are you—” Georgie says, when Robbie closes the distance, quiets when Robbie’s hand curves around his jaw. It scrapes against his fingers, stubble coming in, but the skin under is soft, as hot as Robbie remembers; Georgie always ran warmer than anyone else, almost feverish. Georgie exhales, and Robbie can feel the flex of his jaw under his fingers. 

“Fuck me or get the fuck out,” Robbie says. “Last time I’m going to say it.”

Georgie doesn’t move except to swallow.


End file.
